“I saw the audit,” I said, standing at the foot of his bed. “I know about the clean scans from three weeks ago.”
Ben did not blink. His hand stayed on his temple for a second, then slid down to his lap.
“The doctors do not understand my specific case,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, practiced rumble. “They look at numbers, Clara, but they do not feel the pain in my chest.”
“You bought a plane ticket to San Jose under the name Benjamin Cole,” I said. “And your creditors just served me with a sixty-two-thousand-dollar lawsuit at my house.”
Ben leaned back against his pillows, the frail, trembling posture vanishing from his shoulders. He reached over to his bedside table and picked up a silver-plated water pitcher, pouring himself a cup without any hesitation.
“You always were too smart for your own good, Clara,” he said, his voice completely flat.
“I am going to Gary’s office tomorrow to file for divorce,” I said, my hand twisting the silver band on my finger.
“You can try,” Ben said, taking a slow sip of water. “But you cannot divorce a dying man in this county without a public trial, and that takes six months.”
“You are not dying,” I said.
“The medical records say I am,” Ben said, looking at me with a cold, steady gaze. “And until a judge says otherwise, we are married.”
“My father’s house has nothing to do with your debts,” I said.
“You are my wife now, Clara, and my debts are your debts whether you like it or not,” he said.
“I will tell the sheriff about the ticket,” I said.
“The ticket was bought with cash,” Ben said. “There is no paper trail linking it to your inheritance yet.”
“Yet,” I said.
“If you cooperate, we can both get out of this town,” he said. “If you fight me, the bank will freeze everything, and the house goes to the auction block.”
“I am leaving,” I said.
“The creditors will be at your door again on Friday,” he said, turning his face toward the television hanging from the ceiling.
The living room was quiet except for the tearing sound of brown packing tape. Martha sat on the edge of my floral sofa, holding a stack of empty cardboard boxes she had brought from the grocery store.
“We need to get his things out of this house,” I said, wrapping a ceramic shaving mug in newspaper. “I do not want a single reminder of him under this roof.”
“Did you call the police?” Martha asked, watching me set the mug into the bottom of a box.
“Gary said the police cannot help with civil debts or marital assets,” I said. “We have to fight this in probate court.”
“How much time do we have before the court deadline?” Martha asked.
“Eight days,” I said, tape sputtering as I pulled another length from the dispenser. “If we do not freeze the joint accounts before November fifteenth, the bank will let his creditors take the eighty-five thousand dollars.”
“And the house?” Martha asked.
“Gary is searching the county records for a way to block the lien,” I said. “But he was not sure if the court would grant an emergency hearing in time.”
